My Uncle Bill Webb

Why am I not surprised that I cannot precisely nail down when my Uncle Bill was born or died?

I have tentatively decided it must be from 19 April 1914 to 1 July 1985 (Dear cousins: Please correct me if I am wrong….). That would have made him 71 when he died, which should be about right and 26 when WW2 swept the world.

And it would make him about 3 years younger than Bea, our aunt who became his wife.

Bea, according to my perhaps not so accurate notes, was born on 26 February 1911 and died 14 October 2005 at the age of 94; outliving Bill by 20 years.

The ladies of the family are a long lived bunch -- accidents and strange seizure related ailments notwithstanding. That my Uncle Earl lived only into his 80s seems most likely the result of a decade of strain coping with the aftermath of his wife Margaret’s stroke.

But I was speaking of Uncle Bill. Image a man of medium height, well rounded and sliding toward baldness. He always seemed old to me (consider that I was a baby when we first met and from that perspective everybody looks old), but oddly enough I can’t quite remember him seeming at any time older. In my memory, he seems to have frozen in time, old perhaps, but never actually aging.

Bill had a few eccentricities that made him ‘interesting.’

He was really loud. And by that I mean, LOUD!

He was pretty deaf -- which I suppose relates to being loud….

He had really strange feet.

And, he never gave much thought for politics. And that was REALLY strange in the 60s and 70s (I mean, there was Nixon, Viet Nam, guys with long hair, Nixon, Mrs. E. Wyatt Payne, and… hmm, did I mention Nixon?).

But he did do some really nifty things.

He was the first person I know to fish for squirrels.

Yea, I know…. But it’s still true.

He would sit in the apartment where he and Bea lived (this was after they had lost their house and before they managed to regroup and move to their little cottage in Chesapeake, just across the Ohio River from Huntington). And, seated in more or less comfort (a foot often elevated), he would tie a bit of bread or perhaps a peanut onto the string of his fishing rod.

He began by casting out the open window -- the one facing the big tree just outside -- and slowly lure a squirrel toward the window. It took a while, but he eventually managed to get the critters close enough to begin the next part -- where the magic began.

By the time he had finished, he could open the window and hand feed the squirrels from a bowl of critter food (which looked a lot like people food) he kept near the window.

I once saw a squirrel tap on the window for a snack….

Anyway, did I say he was really LOUD? But for some reason neither the squirrels nor our Aunt Bea seemed to mind.

And he liked to be warm. Really warm. Some might even call the temperatures he enjoyed, hot.

But then he did spent a couple of years basking in the sun and surf of the Solomon Islands back in the ‘40s.

Of course, during the 1940s the Solomon Islands were the site of some of the nastiest, most bloody, most awful fighting during WW2. And Uncle Bill took part in a good bit of it. More than he would have liked. Sun and surf indeed!

He never talked much about it. At least not to me…. Of course, I was not only just a kid, but a bit of a jerky kid who knew it all -- or thought I did… but, wait, this isn’t supposed to be about me.

Bill served in the island hopping campaigns of WW2. During that time, he spend days, perhaps weeks, without dry feet. And wet feet and fungus go hand in hand.

And then there were all those unpleasant people spending a good deal of time trying to kill him! And all those gun shots going on around him all the time.

So he ended up deaf (and LOUD) and had ‘funny’ feet most of his life. The Veteran’s Administration doctors did what they could, but they really had nothing that got rid of the fungus (or managed to regrow blown out ears). At least not for most of Bill’s life. He did seem to have a bit of relief during his last decade, so perhaps science finally caught up with his needs.

And then there’s that political thing….

This was a guy who didn’t give a rat’s ass about politics. Well, OK, maybe he did, but I never noticed. I don’t even know if or how he voted….

…. Hmm, I’m having a problem forming my thoughts here. I know what I want to get across, but I’m struggling to come to grips with how to present it…. You see, Bill supported his country. He came from that generation when a fellow just went off to fight when they told him he was needed. It wasn’t something that fellows like Bill thought much about.

Reminds me of my friend Jim Buckley (... Hey, Buck). Different generation, same set of feelings.

Now back in the day, this being the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, most folks had strong feelings about the romp going on in Viet Nam. Nobody liked it, but some folks thought it important to just go and do as the country -- as the politicos -- said. Others didn’t exactly think that was such a good thing. I fell into the latter category.

Now back then I was in college and full of myself. I had friends who understood the world pretty much as I did, but the rest of the world of Huntington didn’t exactly agree. And so, with a belly full of 3.2 beer or perhaps a bit of bootleg whisky, hippy baiting became not just entertainment but a way of defining how much one loved his country…. Evening and weekend recreation for the good ole boys! One of their more interesting variants was to lean out the car window, wave a large knife toward a guy with long hair and shout, with more or less clarity, “Get a haircut, hippy, or I’ll cut it for ya.”

Happened to me at least twice. And each time I gave the proper response, “Thanks, I’m just on my way to the barber,” followed by a wave of the hand and a cheery smile.

Sheer cowardice, of course.

But, then, would you really want to get in a street shouting match with a drunk waving a (large) knife at you from a car window?

But anyway, my Uncle Bill….

I didn’t visit Bill and Bea much. I mean he was LOUD…. And then there was that strange thing with his feet…. And Bea’s elbow…. I’ll get to the elbow later (maybe…).

I sure did have a bunch of reasons.

Oh, and he kept the place too hot.

And since he’s that LOUD, he must be dumb. Aren’t loud people always dumb?

Lots of reasons….

Now, of course… I’d give a good bit to sit and have a nice talk with Bill, he’d only be in his mid 90s, if he were still here….

First, I’d ask him about the squirrels.

And then, I’d ask if he’d let me listen to a few of those old 78s he and Bea collected. I heard a few, but not enough. Not enough….

And I’d surely not refuse a slice of Bea’s pie -- she made damn fine pie.

And eventually I’d get around to asking just why he never got onto me about my hair or the business about Viet Nam.

But maybe I understand now, a little bit at least,

Maybe he just thought it didn’t matter that much.

You see, he saw friends die in WW2 and maybe it was just enough to be alive (deaf and LOUD and foot fungus and all…) and to have a few friends and,,,,

Here it gets difficult since I know nothing about this…. Sorry.

But maybe it’s just that people like my Uncle Bill just understand things too well -- at that level I’d like to be able to get to someday -- to let themselves be too critical of someone else.

Hell, I don’t know.

Maybe he just liked me…

My Quest for a Great Rosin

Rosin is essential for playing the fiddle. A good rosin allows the bow’s horse hair to grip the strings as it passes over them. Without rosin no sound emerges. Or, if it does, it comes out in bleeps and squawks. Not a pretty sound.

Virtually any rosin can give your bow enough grip to play. And, in fact, many advanced players regard rosin with indifference. My first teacher actually said, “Oh, any rosin will do. They’re all the same.”

Nope.

A wide variety of rosins exist and the different properties of each do make a difference.

As I write this, I have around me 5 different rosins and if I took the time I probably could find a couple more stuck in a corner somewhere. None of these 5 are bad. Each does what it must do. But some do it better than others. Some make my sound better -- to my ear at least. 

And this last point is important. Sound quality has both an absolute and a relative aspect. 

One either hits the note or not. Most would consider that an absolute. But the violin, without frets, will make a note that is more or less at pitch. And here the relative aspects emerge. 

As our ears ‘bloom’ -- become more sensitive to sound -- what is considered OK changes. If a beginner hits a B, she should be content. Yes, it may be a bit flat, but no matter. A few months later, the student plays the same piece, hits the note in the same ‘old’ way and feels a kind of aesthetic discomfort that the note is wrong. And makes the needed adjustment.

This is normal. Hopefully, our student had a good teacher -- one who doesn’t go all medieval when the first note is badly played. Ain’t no good demanding perfection prematurely. It just won’t work.

But, anyway, back to rosin.

My first rosin was the no-name brand that came with my first instrument. It worked. I made a sound. Groovy.

But after a while I began to suspect I could do better and tried another brand. Something from my neighborhood music store -- you know, the one in the Mall that has a 1000 guitars, 50 electronic pianos and a stack of band instruments and, oh yea, those 3 violins over there in the corner.

I noticed that this new rosin played a bit different than the other rosin. 

So, I began to find out all I could about rosin. 

-- don’t ask! Too much information (TMI!).

Next, I tried Super Sensitive Clarity -- not quite an impulse buy -- because it was a “Hypoallergenic Rosin” -- says so right on the container. The block seemed hard and didn’t really  go onto the bow easily. I used a knife to scar the surface of the rosin block -- a clear translucent surface with a look quite different from other rosins. That seemed to help. But the result never sounded right to my ear. It worked. But…. 

About this time the internet was abuzz with positive reactions to Tartini Rosin. I ordered this from my nice internet suppliers and in a few days the friendly folks from UPS dropped it at my door. 

Now THIS is what rosin is all about! It went smoothly onto the bow creating a wonderfully resonant surface. I could notice the difference! I used my block Tartini ‘Silkier’ for about a year. 

Then one day I dropped it.

Did I mention that rosin tends to fragility?

Well, it does.

It didn’t shatter exactly, but it did break into several pieces and separate from it’s attachment to it’s container. 

It still worked like a dream, but now I had a bit of a clunky time getting it onto the bow. 

Also, about this time, I decided (again) to experiment with different strings. In a moment of questionable sanity, I put a set of gut strings onto my fiddle. And learned what a real violin sounds like. I also learned how often I had to retune (every few minutes). And, frankly, that’s not what I like to do during practice time.

But, since a set of gut strings is expensive, I wasn’t about to pitch them, so I bought new rosin…. 

And yes I know that makes no sense, but the brain on music has strange notions sometimes!

I tried Pirastro Eudoxa Rosin.

Good stuff. Pirastro makes strings -- they make some pretty good strings. They also promote the idea that different strings call for different rosin. I have come to believe they just may be correct in this. And, for the gut strings, at least, the Pirastro was as good as the (now clunky container-ed) Tartini.

But, since spending most of my life tuning my strings up (or down, depending on the direction of the temperature and humidity change) was NOT part of my long range plan, after a few months I said farewell to gut and tried to find something as pleasant to hear and play as gut, but without the need for constant retuning.

Now my instrument is an old German -- well over 100 years (perhaps a lot more) and, along with many old Germans (instruments, at least) it has a warm dark sound. The idea of the steel strings -- without a core of either plastic, gut or other material that might change with temperature and humidity -- seemed worth a try.

I tried a set of chroma-steel strings from Jargar. These definitely tend to a bright sound which helps balance the inherent dark sound of my Tedesco. And they are rock solid stable! Sometimes I tweak the tuning just because I think I ought, even when they are pretty much in tune.

And, anyway, the Jargars come from Denmark and have a nice exotic ring to the name.

Only now I realized -- again -- that I wasn’t quite pleased with my rosin. But, since I already had so many barely used blocks of rosin, it seemed a really bad idea to buy still another. And I did still like the Tartini, despite the challenge of finding a convenient chunk at any one time. 

I checked the internet, hoping that rumors that the Tartini had been discontinued were false.

The rumors were true. The fellow who had developed the original Tartini formula (with a wonderful story of finding a tiny 400 or 500 sliver of exotic rosin in a case stuck centuries in an attic); that fellow had now developed a whole line of rosins under his own name. But reviews were mixed and the price had become exorbitant. $25 for a small bit of rosin! Nope. I’ll struggle along with what I have, thank you.

Then I noticed that another player whom I really respect used W. E. Hill rosin. Noticeable as a slab of black colored rosin with deep grooves from years of rubbing. When W. E. Hill says dark rosin, they mean it. I picked up a block and resisted the temptation to take a bite to see if it tasted as much like licorice as it looked.

This stuff works with my strings on at least two of my bows. I’ve had it long enough to believe I will stay with it for a while. 

But if I could just find something that plays as well as the Hill dark, but lasts even longer without needing to be replenished….

Fibonacci's sequence

I find a pleasure in certain numbers and number patterns. For example, I like to think certain stores gained their name because 7 and 11 are prime numbers, although I’ve been told the name has to do with the hours these stores were originally scheduled to be opened.

Whatever. Reality is overrated.

And, while I find prime numbers interesting as singularities and the ratio pi a curiosity with it’s odd tendency to somehow not repeat itself, I really like the Fibonacci sequence.

First, consider the word Fibonacci. Nice. Rounded. Fills your mouth with just the right amount of foreignness. Of course, it’s the guy’s name. Mr. Fibonacci. Interesting fellow, but not my concern just now.

Nope, it’s the numbers themselves: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, ... continuing, I suppose, to infinity. I can’t help thinking there’s a mystery in this sequence. First, it delineates the spiral forms of nature. Think sea shell…. Or spiral nebula, if that works for you. That’s a pretty nifty thing.

But for me the real mystery is the sequence itself, or more properly, the first two numbers of the sequence, the zero and the one. You see, the rule for creating the Fibonacci sequence goes like this: you take the first two numbers, add them together and you get the third number -- which explains why the third number is 1. After all, 0 + 1 = 1…. And then you continue to take the last two numbers and add them together to get a next number in an ever expanding arc.

Fair enough…. But from where do the first two numbers come?

The zero and the one -- nothing/ nada and something -- In order for this process to begin you can’t have just the one thing, you have to have the ‘nothing.’ Both something and nothing have to exist at the same time. Except, of course, ‘nothing’ doesn’t exist -- it’s, well, nothing….

Now, OK, I know that we just have to set up a mathematical rule that you have a zero and a one and there ya go…. But, imagine you’re back at the beginning of everything; time, matter, whatever -- everything. Well, no, not at the beginning of everything, but just before the beginning of everything. Not a micro second before, since no time exists, but just before. There’s nothing/ nada… and then, poof, there’s a something. And since there’s a something, well, there’s no longer any ‘nothing.’

My point here is that you can't really have something and nothing at the same time.

But in the Fibonacci sequence, that’s exactly what you have to have in order for the thing to work -- or at least for the whole thing to begin. And I suppose if something never begins it doesn’t exist…. But of course it does exist.

Now what a pleasant paradox that is. Makes my brain itch. In a good way, I mean….

Now, I’ll confess that I don’t think mathematicians have a problem with this. As I said earlier, they postulate a zero and a one and Bob’s your uncle.

But still….

Considering Maccha Green Tea

Ah, yes, the elixir!

... first an interesting website for anyone interested...

www.maiko.ne.jp/english

... with a great cartoon visit to a Japanese Tea House. Only a Japanese tea site could be this much fun! I learned more about green tea than I ever imagined might exist!

And I decided what I've been looking for all along is Maccha (or Matcha, as I occasionally spell it). Maccha tea is powdered tea and is the traditional tea used in a tea ceremony. 

I had always considered this to be way beyond anything I might ever want to concern myself, but it turns out that the process isn't all that difficult. 

A nice bowl, a scoop of the proper powdered elixir, a drop of cold water (to smooth out the powder), perhaps 100 ml of hot (not boiling, thank you) water and perhaps 30 seconds of brisk whisking with a, well, a whisk....

And then you drink.

Ah, yes. Life is good.

Shaving with a straight razor....

What you will need:

Stuff that you can't carry on an airplane.

Main reference for finding out what you really need to know:

classicshaving.com (and no, I don't get a commission....)

Begin with a 'wet beard.'

Best: take a shower

Works: soak beard with a hot, wet towel

You won't like it: throw some water on your face and lather up

This 'soaking' recommendation seems important. Apparently, scraping even the most wimpy of beards is pretty tough and anything that causes drag to the razor (such as a dryish beard) makes for irritation (if you're lucky) or ouchy gashes (if you're... well... not so lucky).

After soaking, don't dry your face. In fact, you might consider splashing your face with the occasional handful of water as you prepare your brush.

OK, I'm getting bored....

Use a badger bristle shaving brush. Lather up.

Open the straight razor. Try not to hold it by the blade. Position your arm in a twisted arc and apply razor to face. It helps to reduce the angle (and the spelling 'angel' oddly comes to mind). If you don't get the angle correct, don't worry, 'nature' will give you feedback in direct proportion to your error.

* * *

And here I self censure a paragraph that I found revolting in it's graphic, although possibly humorous, rendition of the result of the above mentioned 'feedback.' 

* * *

Keep in mind that these little 'feedbacks' generally don't hurt much and will leak only for a few minutes (seconds sometimes). So persevere and, in the beginning, just lay the blade flat against your cheek and angle it up just enough to scrape beard from face -- removing as little skin as possible.

Well, whatever.

The point is that shaving with a straight razor is a fun exercise for people who enjoy such things. It helps not to hurry.

It also helps not to be particularly shaky nor prone to sudden jerks of the arm or head.

I suspect that trying to shave with a cut-throat on a train might be ill advised.

I've been doing this for a month or so which, naturally, makes me an expert.... I have only one scar, so far, and it seems healing nicely (thank you). My friend JB suggested that I might just claim it as a dueling scar from Heidelberg.

I like that... only the direction it tilts toward seems a bit wrong. Ah well....